


Home on the Range

by BeneficialAddiction



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, BAMF Phil Coulson, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Cowboy Phil, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Cowhands, Don't Touch Lola, Horses, Lola - Freeform, M/M, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Phil Needs a Hug, Punk Clint, Ranger Phil, montana
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2018-10-09 18:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10418169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Phil's only been home from the military three weeks when 19 year old bad boy Clint Barton gets dumped on his parents' doorstep – their latest rehabilitation project and the youngest thus far. He'd known the kid was coming but resents his arrival all the same, the upset to Phil's routine and his continuing readjustment to civilian life. Honorably discharged after falling victim to a roadside bomb, he's come back to the Circle C Ranch with every intention of taking full ownership so that his parents can have the retirement they deserve. He'll be damned if some punk city kid screws up those plans, no matter how pretty he is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry. I did a thing. I couldn't help it. Don't hate me!

Phil Coulson wakes up with a pained gasp and reaches automatically for the knife he keeps in the bedside table, a normal enough reaction. It's the same every morning, nothing unusual, and as always it takes him several minutes to remember that he's home, in his old bedroom on his parents' ranch, and that there's no hand on the end of the arm he reaches out with with which to grip anything at all. Rolling onto his back he lies panting in the twisted sheets, clammy with a cold sweat until his heart stops trying to hammer its way out of his chest. 

The sun hasn't even begun to rise, but there's no chance of drifting off again so he may as well rise himself. 

Climbing from the bed, he bites back a pained groan, long accustomed by now to his body's familiar aches and pains. He doesn't bother with his prosthetic; showers first, letting the water loosen knotted muscles in his back and shoulders until he feels like he can breathe again and move without a grimace. He avoids his own reflection, unashamed but exhausted after another night of unsettled dreams, dressing quickly and efficiently despite the possession of only a single hand. When all that's left are buttons and laces he collects the experimental prosthesis, still alien and foreign, and connects it to the port capping his abbreviated forearm. 

He's been told it's fully healed, the nerves synthesized perfectly with the electronic synapses, but it still feels like sticking a fork in a socket every time he clicks it into place. 

Running through a quick set of exercises that are meant to strengthen the neural connections and increase his fine motor movements over time, he allows himself a moment to sit on the side of the bed and breathe, to close his eyes and feel the cool morning breeze against his face, to listen to the fading of the crickets and the gentle hum of the ranch slowly waking up through his open window. The sun is only just beginning to crest the mountains to the east of the property, the sky just beginning to brighten with pinks and oranges, and it’s that daily recurring reassurance that he's made it through another night that settles him the most. 

It's too military after his discharge but he runs through a set of calisthenics before he heads down to breakfast; crunches and push-ups and pull-ups before making up the bed with hospital corners. Too military, but too ingrained to let go, too soon to have forgotten. 

His boots are silent on the stairs, well familiar with all their creaks and squeaks. It's only just a half-hour too early for his parents to be up but he won't begrudge them the sleep. They're both getting on in years, both starting to slow down, so he steals into the kitchen as quietly as possible and starts the coffee to percolating in the giant, industrial-sized pot. The ranch-hands may sleep in the bunk houses but they take coffee and breakfast every morning up at the main house before the day begins, and supper every Sunday. Phil had learned the wisdom of snagging the first cup by the time he was seventeen. 

He's stirring a spoonful of sugar into a second mug when his father appears from the back hallway. Robert Coulson is a cowboy through and through, standing tall and bow-legged, his skin tanned and wind-whipped to leather. His hands are big-knuckled and scarred and Phil has seen them tear fences from their moorings and calves from their mother's unrelenting wombs, but he's also seen the way they can quiet an anxious mare and the way they caress his mother's cheek. The man can be as hard and immovable as stone at times, but his eyes are creased with laugh-lines and he can always be counted on to help out a neighbor in need, no matter the inconvenience. 

"Thanks kid," he says, voice still sleep-rough as he accepts the mug and ruffles Phil's thinning hair. 

This earns him a bitter chuckle – Phil's only twenty-seven but he feels forty most days, a far cry from the spry, energetic teenager he'd been the day he left for boot camp. 

"Morning," he replies, taking a bracing sip of glorious caffeine gold. "We riding out to the upper pastures today?" 

"Nah, we got the new kid coming in 'round two – you're mother wants us to stick close." 

Breath catching, Phil hides his scowl behind the rim of his mug. Damn it, he knew that, he'd just... hoped his father had forgotten. Stupid - his father had a memory like an elephant - but he had really, really been hoping this time it would slip. 

It's not that he's prejudiced ok? He's never had a problem with any of his parents' little pet projects before. In his lifetime he's seen maybe two dozen young men come and go as part of the rehabilitation program that Rob and Ellie Coulson volunteer for. They come on as a part of a work-release program, hard labor in place of probation, and the Circle C can always use extra hired hands. They've had one or two that didn't work out but not for any serious reasons, so there's nothing to say that this new one will cause any problems. 

Phil's read this latest file provided by the courts, and he doesn't like the looks of Clint Barton. 

At nineteen years old he's the youngest they've ever taken on, and his rap sheet is the longest by far. There's robbery and joy-riding, car theft and driving without a license, drunk and disorderly and minor in possession of a controlled substance. Pickpocketing and defacing public property, assault and breaking curfew – short of murder, you name it this kid has pretty much done it. He's not sure exactly which crime landed the guy here at the Circle C, but there's no shortage to choose from. 

Still, nothing in particular should be setting his inner alarm bells clanging. It doesn't make any sense and that's what is so upsetting to him. The fact that he's reacting so negatively to something he's experienced countless times before is telling of his mental state, of the place he's at, and he doesn't like it. He's been working hard with his therapists – physical and mental – and he's better than he was, much better, but very clearly not one hundred percent. 

That's frustrating, and Phil's never liked problems he can't solve. 

Lucky for him there's always a surplus of work to be found on the Circle C, more than enough to keep any number of men busy. 

As Phil and his father finish up their coffee those men slowly begin to trickle in, filling mugs at the pot before stepping back out onto the porch to smoke and speak quietly amongst themselves, discussing the tasks that lie ahead of them that day. There are chickens to feed and three heifers to milk, horses to be tended and cattle to be driven to fresh grazing-grounds, and above all preparation for that busiest of seasons – spring, when calves are dropping and a new crop of horses need to be brought down from the hills. 

Murmurs of greeting go up when Ellie Coulson arrives in the kitchen, dressed but wrapped in a thick robe and slippers against the cool of early morning. She greets every man by name, bequeathing Phil and her husband with a kiss on the cheek apiece before taking her place before her pride and joy, the massive, diner-style range Robert had installed in her freshly renovated kitchen twelve years ago. Breakfast is a veritable buffet of griddled flapjacks and honey, eggs and sausage and hot, home-cooked applesauce, enough to fill the bellies of all thirteen individuals who crowd around the long, raw-wood dining table, and very nearly all sourced directly from the ranch itself. 

When the whirlwind meal is over and the table decimated, Javier – his mother's favorite and self-proclaimed house help – stays behind to help with the dishes and the rest head out into the clean Montana air, boots clunking heavily on the wide, wooden porch. Phil drops down the steps in the middle of the pack, welcomed back into the fold like the prodigal son he is, jostled and shouldered and picked on in the way men do. It's a little too close, a little too tight but he accepts it all with a grin and good-natured cussing, tamping down the post-traumatic panic that threatens at the edges of his calm. He knows most of these men well, grew up alongside them, learned from them and counted them as brothers, and it hurts something small and young inside of him now that _his_ experiences, _his_ issues are getting in the way of the return of that easy camaraderie. 

He means to get back to that, hopes he'll get there soon. 

If he's to take over ownership of the Circle C, there are expectations he'll need to meet first, theirs and his own. 

No better time to start. 

Rob Coulson seems to agree. 

"Floor is yours kid," he says, tossing Phil the War Board, the thick clipboard file that hangs at the front of the barn outside the office. 

He catches it deftly enough with his prosthetic fingers, a small flare of pride warming his belly that he can prove himself at least that capable in front of the men he needs to lead, many of them whom he deeply respects. 

"Jazz, you on the books today?" he asks, and his best friend Jasper Sitwell nods. He's a studious man, not much of a cowboy, but he's a veritable genius with statistics and organization, and has kept the ranch afloat more than once when money was scarce and belts needed to be tightened. "Excellent. Can you get me the feed projections for this year if we take in, mmm, what do you think Boss? Eight new horses?" 

"Eight?" Robert Coulson questions, scratching his chin whiskers in an absent gesture of consideration that Phil knows well. "We don't usually take on more than five." 

"Jessa is still laid up," Phil points out, his heart heavy when he thinks of his mother's beloved mare and the inevitable conclusion to her injury last fall that's becoming clearer with each passing day. "And the new kid will need one to ride." 

"He will," the man agrees, and Phil sees mischief and teasing glint in his eyes. "And the last one?" 

"You know I want to start a breeding program," he answers with a roll of his eyes. They've talked the topic to death already and haven't quite come to an agreement, but Phil's slowly started to sway his father to his side of the issue. He's hoping this will be the start of it. 

Robert laughs and waves him off, as much of an answer as he's going to get in front of the rest of the hands, so Phil gives Jasper a nod that sends the man scrambling into the office before anyone can change their minds again. If there's one thing the man hates it's waffling over the numbers. 

"All right gentlemen," he calls, addressing the larger crowd who've become distracted during the short conversation. "Let's make it quick with the horses this morning; we've got a lot of work to get started on." 

Allowing a note of authority to show in his posture and his tone, Phil surreptitiously watches the men's reactions and isn't surprised by what he sees. He'd expected there would be a few who wouldn't accept his rise to power, especially after being gone so long, and he was only a little relieved to find that he'd picked his dissenters accurately. 

"Tripp," he calls, addressing Antoine Triplett, another one of the hands that he's still close with and trusts implicitly, "Take Ward, Garrett, and Rumlow up to the western range. I want a couple of round bales dropped – at least half the herd tested pregnancy positive so we're going to be pushing the feed to them for the next few months. Spicer, you can drive the truck?" 

The older man nods – he's a silent, sullen bastard but he's been like a second father to Phil and he's another one of them that he knows he can trust. He doesn't like grouping Ward, Garrett, and Rumlow up together, doesn't like leaving Tripp outnumbered even though the three men have never caused too much trouble. They make him nervous, always have, and Phil's learned to listen to those instinctive rumblings, so until he comes to a compromise with those feelings he'll make sure they're well supervised. 

"Good. When you're done take a ride down the valley – I want to know how high the river's running and whether or not the dam is going to need repairs." 

Tripp and Spicer nod and head deeper into the barn where the horses are nickering and rattling stall doors, eager for their morning feed and brush down. Ward, Garrett, and Rumlow follow more reluctantly, muttering to each other and shooting Phil subtle glares – he's not sure what he's done to piss them off but he suspects it has something to do with the fact that he and Tripp have been named Boss and Foreman respectively while the three of them have yet to be promoted in any way 

It doesn't matter. 

After four years in the Army Rangers, there are very few men capable of intimidating him, and those three are not among them. 

"Cooper, Hudson, Menendez," he calls, addressing the remaining hands, "You're with me. We'll be putting up the corrals so bring your gloves." 

Final orders given, Phil signs off on the War Board and hangs it back up, accepts the handshake his father offers him. He's handed over the reigns far more willingly than Phil had expected him to, very likely due to his developing arthritis and advancing age, but it's still a huge point of pride that the man trusts him with his life's work, his legacy, even after everything. 

"Go," he commands Phil gently, still able to catch the minute tells that the Army had nearly drummed out of him. "You know she's waiting. Won't get a lick of work out of you till you see her." 

Grinning widely, Phil turns on his heel and shoots off up the hallway, a sudden sense of joy and rightness rushing through his system. Every man at the Circle C is provided a horse to ride, a necessity when working on a ranch, and eventually each is given the opportunity to work off the cost of that animal, to earn its ownership or that of another horse of their choice. Lola is Phil's true first, a beautiful nine-year-old mare, glossy red in color with a brilliant white blaze and socks. He raised her from a filly, abandoned by her mother his junior year of high school, and has managed to maintain their bond through years of absence and several deployments. 

She calls to him as he approaches her stall at the far end of the barn, a much-needed welcome. Every man is responsible for their own mount and is expected to keep them in good health and well attended. Horses are the true life's blood of the Circle C, and neglect of abuse of any animal is grounds for immediate termination. Every morning the animals are fed and groomed, then either saddled for work or set out to pasture. Lola may not be needed for today's tasks, but Phil's made it a point to ride her every evening since he's been back. 

She's a beautiful girl – no one could argue that. Sweet too, but plenty fiery, sure-footed and energetic, and Phil absolutely plans to make her a part of the breeding program if he can pull the right stallion from the wild herd that ranges the Circle C's property. Pouring her feed, he spends a peaceful ten minutes brushing out her mane and tail, rubbing down her coat, and cleaning out her hooves with a pick. He speaks quietly to her all the while, murmured nothings and gentle touches meant to reacquaint her with his hands and his voice and all the things about him that have changed. 

It hurts to leave her, to turn her out to graze with a few of the others instead of saddling her up. He'd much rather be riding fence lines with his father, the huge expanse of the earth and mountains spread out before him. A man could feel like a king up there, like a god, and he thinks that maybe it's something he needs right now. It's been far too long and he hasn't had the chance to get up on the ridge yet, knows he won't feel quite _home_ until he does. 

It's a treat for another day. 

For now he joins his father in the cab of the tractor, heads down the field to load up all the extra bits of fencing that he and the others will spend the day pounding and wrangling and jacking together, and tries not to think too far ahead.


	2. Chapter 2

They bring him in on the bus. 

The fucking ex-school bus, painted white, with the words Montana State Jail stenciled on the side in blue letters. 

It's stupid but Clint's not – he knows it isn't protocol. 

He'd been held at the jail for the last three months because he had nowhere else to go, no one to be released to, but he hadn't been convicted of anything this time. There hadn't been enough evidence, no witnesses to prove that he'd been the one to rob the liquor store, and as much as it had sucked the fact that he'd been found bleeding out on the sidewalk in front of the store had helped. Still, he'd been suspect, and his record had spoken for itself. Never mind that he'd been a vulnerable kid, just trying to survive - in the eyes of the state he was a career criminal, now a legal adult and escalating toward disaster. Technically still a ward of the state until the age of twenty one, the judge had decided to essentially place him in one more foster home disguised as his 'big last chance,' throwing him into a work-release program on some horse ranch out in the mountains, and Clint couldn't be fucking happier. 

He's smart enough not to show it. 

The things you want, the things that make you happy – those are the first things that get taken away from you. 

So he scowls and he sneers and he scoffs, and he generally makes himself as big of a pain in the ass as possible in the few interim days between judgment and consequence. He knows how to work the system by now, knows how to manipulate the people around him, and he's willing to take the covert beatings and harassment by the jail staff to get himself out of there. His destination, the Circle C Ranch, well he may stay and he may not, but he's always loved the mountains, the clean air, the wide open skies and endless horizons. 

Product of spending your formative years with a travelling circus. 

Maybe it'll be a good place and maybe it won't, but it can't be as bad as this. 

The bus jolts and hits a pothole as it turns onto the gravel road that will take them into Redemption – _jesus, how fucking cliché_ \- up the mountain to the Circle C, and Clint gets elbowed harshly, the butt of a rifle connecting with his knee and his head connecting with the window. Parrish, the armed guard standing over him despite the fact that he's shackled hands-to-waist, ankles-to-floor, grins sharply and adjusts his grip on the stock. 

"Oops," he smirks, and Clint sneers but doesn't reply. 

Bastard, he's been on Clint's case from the beginning, giving him all kinds of shit, just because it was his uncle that owned the liquor store. 

Fucking small towns. 

It was Parrish who'd set it up to put Clint on the bus, a whole fucking empty bus when they could've just thrown him in the back of one of the vans, or hell an old Crown Vic. He's trying to make a statement, to who only he knows, but whatever, Clint can deal. This, the ride out, it's cute compared to the rest, the way his food trays got dropped or forgotten while he was in the jail, the way the water in his cell was turned off for days at a time, the way his ribs still creaked from the little welcome party he'd been thrown when he'd finally been released from the hospital only to be transferred to a cell. 

But it's good, it's fine. 

Clint's known how to take a beating since he was four years old, and he can use every mark and unprofessional comment to his advantage, because he thinks it must be a good place that he' going. Hopes it will be a good place. People who make animals their living, who take in young men the way these people do, they must be good people. 

It's stupid – none of his past experience supports this belief – but he still holds out on that hope. 

At the very least he should be able to play the woman, this _Ellie Coulson,_ to take advantage of her maternal instincts if she has any at all. 

The fact that she's standing out in the yard to meet them when the bus finally makes it up the long, dirt-worn path to the sprawling ranchstead speaks well to it. 

"Welcome to hell," Parrish smirks, unclipping Clint from the anchor point on the side of the bus and jerking him roughly to his feet. 

Cramped up from being shackled so long Clint actually stumbles, but it gives him a clever little idea so he lets himself fall against Parrish's side and gets another shove for his efforts. The man's an idiot of the first order so he falls for it, just like he fell for all of Clint's bitching about how much he hates farms and ranches and animals of all kinds. 

Fucking moron. 

Just made them all the more excited to send him there, exactly where he'd hoped to really end up. 

See? 

Clever. 

"Yeah, it's gonna suck not having _your_ pretty face to brighten my day," he smirks as Parrish shoves him forward, up the aisle toward the door. 

Looking back over his shoulder, he sends the deputy a wink, homophobic asshole, and gets exactly the reaction he was expecting. 

He could've saved it if he'd tried – instead he lets himself fall, maybe even gives himself a little extra momentum as he goes sprawling off the bus steps into the dirt to land on his hands and knees. His yelp is exaggerated and pained, his joints complaining as he hits the packed earth with a jarring thud, unable to catch himself with his wrists still locked to his waist, but it's totally worth it. He groans pitifully and rolls onto his side, panting like he can't get up, and the shocked gasps and disproving shouts are like music to his ears. 

"What the hell deputy?" a deep voice snarls, and it's not for show that he flinches and curls in on himself a little tighter. 

He doesn't do well with some men ok, with big, lean, angry men who are too loud and too rough and move too fast. He's not ashamed of his reactions - he's earned the right to them, and his caution has served him damn well over the years, so if he shakes a little as he draws his knees up tight to his chest, if it brings the woman to her crouch beside him to flutter her hands over his hair and his shoulders, well, it works both ways then doesn't it? 

He can hear the man arguing with the deputy, can hear Parrish denying it, but it wouldn't go, even if Clint didn’t have the bruises to bear it out. The man just doesn't give enough of a fuck to try to sound sincere. 

As it is the black eyes help. 

"Here, here's your damned paperwork," the other man snarls, and Clint suspects now that this is Robert Coulson, Ellie's husband and co-owner of the Circle C. "Now get the hell off my property. I'll be speakin' to your supervisor about this Shane – I'm damned disappointed in you." 

"Come on sweetie, let's get you up," Ellie murmurs, slipping her hand beneath Clint's elbow and pulling him gently into a sitting position. He lets her tug, lets her take his weight and whimpers, missing Parrish's parting words, but the bus snarls and belches acrid smoke on its way back down the lane. 

Good riddance. 

"I think we may have a problem." 

Clint scowls, shifting onto his knees as his head snaps up to meet this new voice with eyes blazing, because hey, fuck you, so far he's been nothing but a poor little victim. The man looming over him is young, maybe ten years older than Clint himself, and very obviously the son of Ellie and Robert Coulson. He's also very obviously a soldier; it's written all over him in the way he stands, the way he holds himself, the set of his jaw and his shoulders and the sharpness in his eyes and holy hell... 

He's quite possibly the hottest piece of ass Clint has ever had the pleasure to kneel before. 

Shit. 

It's not like he's not used to this ok? 

He's young, he's still technically a teenager, he's completely ok with the fact that he's bisexual and he is _more_ than used to using his body, using sex to get what he wants.. He knows what he looks like, knows how to use it, has fucked for money and for survival before and isn't ashamed of it. He enjoys sex, especially with a man like the one in front of him, one who's so clearly contained, wound tighter than a freaking top and completely in control... 

Oh yes, _this_ kind of man Clint would love to take apart. 

It's too much too soon, far too soon to make such judgments, but Clint sees things better than most and very likley wouldn't be alive today if he weren't pretty damned good at reading people. 

He doesn't mind that this guy will be his boss, will be in a position of authority so easily abused (like he's not used to that), but he does mind the stick quite obviously lodged up his ass. 

Problem, please. 

"The good deputy didn't leave us the keys." 

Oh. 

Clint actually barks a laugh of relief when he finally understands – is that all? The three people grouped around him, and the two standing and staring several yards off, seem perplexed by his reaction, especially Coulson Jr., but Clint just grins and tosses him a saucy wink before sticking his fingers into his mouth and retrieving the lockpick he keeps behind his teeth. 

Yeah, Parrish is real good at his job huh? 

It's a matter of seconds to pop the lock on his cuffs, release his own wrists and get to work on the chains around his waist and ankles. He'd played nice at the jail – didn't want to jeopardize his chance to make good on his work release – but now it's time to get back to what he'd been before. 

A foster kid instead of a prisoner, mischievously playful instead of a malicious pain-in-the-ass. 

Doesn't mean he can't remember how to slip a pair of cuffs. 

Child's play. 

"Mmm," blue eyes grumbles, frowning as he watches Clint shed the last of his chains and roll to his feet, looking both irritated and impressed. "He didn't leave your things either." 

"Don't have any," Clint shrugs, unperturbed as he dusts off his prison-issued orange jumpsuit. 

Next to him Ellie Coulson titters, brushing at his shoulders and taking his hands in hers, turning them back and forth to examine the deep red lines cut into the skin by his too-tight restraints. He lets her, would rather pull away, but Robert Coulson looms large beside him, taller and much broader than he, still too scrawny from a lifetime of malnourishment. 

Clint had never grown in to his own shoulders. 

Anyway. 

Best to be careful, to be on his guard, so he hunches in on himself, makes himself smaller and less of a threat, but the way Junior eyes him says he for one isn't buying it. 

Clint hadn't expected him to. 

"What do you mean you don't have any things dear?" Ellie asks, "Surely you must have some clothes at the very least," and her voice cuts right down to his quick because fuck, she actually means it. 

She's... 

She's a _real mom._

Clint feels his cheeks burn, embarrassed for the first time and he takes a step back from her, out of the pile of loose chains he's been standing in and falls into an approximated parade rest, drilled into him from the year he'd spent in boot camp at fourteen. Clasping his hands behind him, he ducks his head, stares down at his ratty sneakers. 

"Don't have any ma'am," he mumbles, because he knows one of two things is about to happen. Either they'll sweep him, send him back, or they'll offer to kit him out. Can't work a damn ranch without a decent pair of boots, a pair of gloves at the very least. Clint doesn't even have some spare boxers to his name, and very suddenly he's hesitant to accept charity from this woman. "Sorry." 

"Oh sweetheart," she murmurs sadly, and she wants to touch him, he can tell, but she doesn't. "Don't be sorry." 

"Not your fault son," Robert Coulson says gruffly, and Clint flinches hard. 

That's the one thing, the _worst_ thing he could've said, that he could've called... 

"Nevermind it darling," he hears Ellie say, as if from the end of a long, dark tunnel, from way back in his childhood. "You're about Phil's size – he can lend you some clothes until tomorrow." 

_Tomorrow..._ when he'll either be bought and paid for or booted. 

_Phil..._ pretty blue eyes, who _is_ about Clint's height but who's certainly broader and stronger and just _bigger_ than scrawny, battle-scarred Clint... 

It's too much. 

But Clint's a fighter, has been bare-bones surviving since the age of two or three, so he swallows down the nausea, bites back the shakes, shrugs off the god-damned panic attack and follows Ellie Coulson into the house.


	3. Chapter 3

They give him a room in the house, like, the actual family home. Apparently the bunk houses are full, but these people, this Ellie Coulson still took him in, still offered him a place. 

Clint doesn't know how he feels about that. 

His history tells him there has to be an explanation, a motive, a reason they've brought him on even though they're already full-up but in the entire, never-ending hour that he's been lying here alone on his back in a bed that's a lot bigger and softer than any he can remember having, he hasn't been able to figure it out. A room, a whole room with its own private bath all for him, and it... 

In a way it's a tiny bit like a prison cell, contained, isolated, and it's sick but that makes him feel a lot better. 

A lot more at home. 

Says a fucked-up lot doesn't it? 

Clint's eyes sting and he scrubs at them angrily – stupid to let it get to him. Nothing he can do about what's past now anyway, except try to forget, and there's plenty there that he _wants_ to forget. 

But... 

The way Mrs. Coulson had looked at him... the way she'd _touched_ him... 

Fuck, he was right, she _is_ a real mom, and he doesn't know if he can handle that. 

Violence, abuse, humiliation, he can take that and he can handle it, he can fight and rail and rage against it and he can do fucking great in the face of it, grow and flourish and smile just to spite the ones around him. 

Affection, simple human kindness – that he doesn't know how to respond to. 

That's different, dangerous, and he hates that. 

He needs that jail cell off of him. 

He only gets his jumpsuit unzipped and off his shoulders when there's a knock at the door. 

"Clint, may I come in?" 

And well, it's still her house, still her room. Clint may not understand all the finer points of being a house guest, but the circus taught him plenty about possession, about what belongs and everything that goes with it. 

He opens the door without a thought and doesn't realize he's essentially still stripped to the waist until Ellie Coulson steps into the room and gasps sharply, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. 

"Oh sweetheart," she murmurs, her hand reaching out to him but not touching, hovering over the dull purple bruises spread across his torso. "What's happened to you?" 

" 'S just a couple cracks," he mumbles, his cheeks burning. His arms come up and cross over his chest, shame and guilt and hot, sickly feelings welling up in the pit of his belly. " 'M fine." 

Ellie Coulson opens her mouth, her eyes flashing but she catches herself, closes it again so tight her lips go thin and white. She ends up patting him gently on the bicep, turns away and puts a small stack of clothes on the bed. She makes a sniffing sound before she stands up, her shoulders straight like a soldier's and a small, stiff smile on her face. 

"Well, Phillip's found some clothes for you to wear until we can get you to town tomorrow," she says brightly, dusting off her hands. "Why don't you take a shower – there's plenty of soap and things in there. Come find me when you're done and I'll wrap those ribs for you. By then it will be dinner time and we'll get you something to eat." 

And then she's gone, hustling out of the room like if she stands in it with him one more minute she'll start to cry. 

Clint kinda feels like crying too. 

It's a shit feeling, so he does as she'd suggested and climbs into the shower, huge and clean and opulent after the scuzzy, open stalls of the jail, more hot water than he can ever remember having. He's nearly scrubbed himself raw with the strong, lightly-scented soap by the time he's done, but there are fluffy gray towels waiting for him in the cabinet when he climbs out. There's a razor and shaving gel on the counter but he can't bear to look at himself in the mirror that long, so he just uses the toothbrush instead, keeping his head ducked. 

He tries not to think about it too much when he sorts the clothes Phil's picked out for him. It's a different kind of squirmy heat in his belly as he fingers the denim and cotton, one he doesn't want to examine too closely just yet. Maybe later, when he's settled and found his feet, when it will be easier for him to cut and run after, but not now. There's a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, presumably for sleeping, as well as a pair of faded jeans, worn at the cuffs and a light, cotton button-down. The guy's only an inch shorter than Clint, a little narrower at the shoulders but it's nothing that won't fit. 

Clint thanks his gods that there's no underwear in the stack. Going commando for the evening is a small price to pay. The shirt's a little snug across his shoulders, just like he thought it would be, but it's the fact that it's clean and well mended and smells like fabric softener that makes it feel foreign and uncomfortable against it's skin. He puts on the clean socks from the pile, the battered jailhouse sneakers and leaves the room with his teeth clenched, forcing himself down the stairs when he would much rather lock the bedroom door and crawl back into bed. 

Head down. Shoulders hunched. Eyes on the floor. Keep walking. 

He can hear clattering in the kitchen. Crackling. Something smells incredible and makes Clint stomach growl but he doesn't get his hopes up. Being fed, more than anything, seems like a step too far. He finds the kitchen just off the front door, huge and modern and open in a big old mountain cabin, all granite countertops and stainless steel. Ellie Coulson is puttering around at the stove, a few pots and pans steaming on the island, and he nearly stumbles as he steps into the room, so struck by the feeling of country and family and home that he feels like a child, watching the scene through a television screen. 

"There you are," Ellie says with a smile when she turns and finds him standing there. Clint doesn't reply, just ducks his head and plays with one of the buttons on his borrowed shirt because her eyes are a tiny bit red and puffy around the edges. "Are you feeling better dear?" 

"Yes ma'am." 

"No, no, none of that now sweetheart," she shushes, putting her hand on his shoulder and shooing him onto a bar stool, slipping his shirt from his shoulders. "Miss Ellie if you must, but my son already makes me feel old enough." 

"Lies and slander." 

Clint flinches, startles as Phillip Coulson appears in the kitchen, steps over to press a kiss to his mother's cheek. He blinks, stares at Clint's chest and the bruises, and Clint recognizes the moment he catches sight of his back because the man goes stiff and cold, his stare locked on him the way Clint locks on to a target. 

He knows what it looks like. 

He knows what Trickshot's whips had done, what the Swordsman's knives had done. His skin's a crisscross of long, knotted welts and scars, a mess, but they aren't tight, don't stop the pull of his bow and that's all he's ever cared about. Those, those are something he's not ashamed of, and he sits tall and firm on the stool, refuses to shrink from his gaze. 

"Tough little bastard aren't you?" 

Clint blinks, stunned by this assessment, but Phil Coulson's holding his gaze and there's something understanding in it, something relatable. His mouth is dry, he swallows hard, can't move even when Ellie swats at her son with a dish towel. 

"Phillip, I won't have that mouth of yours in my kitchen." 

"Yes ma'am." 

"Behave yourself," she scolds, putting a tin of balm and an ace bandage down on the island by Clint's elbow. "You'll scare..." 

And well yup. 

Now she's seen it too. 

Clint twists his borrowed shirt between his hands, grits his teeth and doesn't allow himself to shiver when her fingers trace lightly over the longest of the scars, a long slash that runs from just under his right shoulder blade all the way down to his left hip. There's a tattoo there, at the bottom, curving around his waist – sharp, heavy, black lines detailing the wings and feathers of a hawk in flight – black and blue bruising around his kidneys... he's a fucking mess, hardly any unblemished skin left on him. 

"They're old," he says with a shrug, his voice hoarse and tight like he's trying to justify the marks. "Eight years, ten years, fifteen..." 

"You were just a child." 

"So?" 

Now it's Ellie's turn to flinch, and Clint hunches his shoulders knowing he's said something wrong, but all she does is wrap him up in a hug and crush his face to her bosom. Clint flails but she's a stronger lady than she looks and holds him tight. He sends a silent SOS but Phil Coulson is watching them with a strange look on his face, something like fondness and confusion and pride and... hurt. 

It sets Clint's teeth on edge, makes a chill run down his spine. 

Placing his hands very gently – so, so careful – on Ellie Coulson's arms, he pulls back and pushes her away, extricates himself from her embrace and sits back, closes off his body language so that she'll back up. She's not his mom, not his anything, he shouldn't... 

He feels sick. 

"Let's get you taped up," she says briskly, but her eyes are wet and Clint's not used to someone caring about him. "Phillip, would you set the table please?" 

The man nods, shoots Clint one last, confusing look as he rubs at his left forearm, hidden beneath his sleeve, and picks up a stack of plates, disappearing through a wide, open, archway door. Clint watches him go and jerks when the first touch of cool, thick balm comes against his ribs. Ellie Coulson murmurs a quiet apology and sounds so broken about it that he submits to her ministrations in absolute silence, folding his arms above his head to give her access to the worst of the bruises. She spreads the soothing balm over his ribs before winding the bandage snug around his torso, and he's relieved, not just from the pain, when he can slip his shirt back on and button it right up to the collar. 

"Supper time," Ellie says brightly, shuffling over to the sink to wash her hands as her son comes back into the room. 

Clint doesn't reply, but accepts a large, warm gravy boat when Ellie pushes it into his hands. She collects up two large bowls, Phil grabs a few more, and then he's being shuffled into a dining room where a long table of raw oak had been set with four places, clustered together at one end. Robert Coulson is sitting at the head of it, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose and a stack of papers in his hands, and Clint practically scuttles to the table to put down his dish trying not to be seen. 

"No work at the table," Ellie says, swatting her husband on the shoulder and eliciting a chuckle. 

He puts his papers aside as Ellie and her son take their seats, and the only reason Clint manages to slide up to the table, the lady of the house on his right and Phil across from him, is that it seems like the way to stay as inconspicuous as possible. There's a plate and silverware in front of him, a glass full of dark tea but he doesn't reach for anything. He knows better than that. The table shifts almost immediately into movement and chatter, dishes being passed as Robert and Phil Coulson review the day's work, Ellie sticking in little anecdotes along the way, and no one seems to notice him as he sits there, silent and starving. 

At least for a moment. 

It's Robert that sees it. Clint doesn't know why that hurts the most. He can feel the older man's eyes on him, on his empty plate as he passes a heavy ceramic bowl to his wife, and doesn't understand the strange feeling of being judged that passes over him, the sensation that he's disappointed this man. He doesn't understand why that hurts either. 

"Eat up son," he rumbles, picking up his fork, and he still hates that word, that name out of his mouth. "I expect to get plenty of hard work out of you just like the rest of them – you'll need the fuel, and my wife's a damn good cook." 

"Sweet talker," Ellie teases, but there's a blush high on her cheeks and her eyes are bright, and it's better than the sharp, assessing look her son is levering at him. "Please do eat Clint; there's always more than enough. The ranch hands are typically on their own for supper, but since you're staying up at the house with us I'll expect you at the table. Take whatever you like – you're far too thin sweetheart." 

Even as she chatters at him she's heaping his plate high; golden fried chicken, mashed potatoes, crisp green beans and peppery gravy, and Clint thinks it's more food than he's ever seen on his plate at once, not in the circus or after, when he was scrabbling the streets. It smells incredible, makes his mouth water, certainly nothing like the grey, tasteless slop served out of prison warming trays. He's sure it probably tastes amazing, but when Ellie is finally done piling food onto his plate he inhales it so fast he hardly tastes any of it. It's hot and heavy and plentiful and feels so damn good in his stomach he can't even regret it. 

Nobody mentions it. The family eats at a normal pace, passing the salt and pepper and the gravy boat, talking about this or that and generally acting like there was nothing strange about this, nothing out of the ordinary. Every once in a while Ellie casually slips something else onto Clint's plate – another scoop of potatoes, a biscuit, a top off on his glass – and he stuffs it into his mouth silently, taking everything he's given and not daring to leave it long enough to be taken back. 

He wants to stare at the man across from him. Wants to learn Phillip Coulson's face. He's attractive – hell, smokin' hot – but there's something else there, something... 

He doesn't know. 

It's some kind of fucked up sense of brothers-in-arms, and it doesn’t make sense and it shouldn't matter. 

Here's this place he wanted to be, here's this family who's treating him better than almost anyone ever has, horses and mountains and open air, honest work... 

He needs to get out of here.


	4. Chapter 4

Phil takes Runaway's Watch. 

They all agree that he's the best one for the job this time around. 

It's usually about a fifty-fifty shot that the new guy will try to run, but with Barton his mother calls it closer to eighty-twenty. 

No one ever _stop-stops_ them; it's not worth the risk. One of them always waits up though – either Ellie, Robert, or Phil – taking on the task of being the Voice of Reason. 

_Stay._

_Try this._

_Finish it out, be something._

Sometimes it works. 

Sometimes it doesn't 

Phil's hoping that this time it will. 

He contemplates that while he starts the coffee, a full two hours before even the Circle C's earliest riser will come looking. It's still dark outside, still _cold,_ and he's stiff and irritable from a night of poor sleep and having skipped most of his stretches in favor of silence. The caffeine helps wake him up once it's brewed but it doesn't help with the vague confusion, the strange sense of connection he feels with the scarred, angry kid sleeping upstairs. 

Clint Barton. 

'Tough' doesn't even begin to do him justice. 

Phil can read abuse in the guy's past more easily from the way he watches his father than in the wicked scars that have cross-crossed his back like patchwork, can read neglect and bitter loneliness in the way he melts despite himself at his mother's every word. He's a fighter, a survivor, and maybe it's all as simple as that – the recognition of someone else who's made it through the fire. 

He doesn't know how he feels about that. 

This kid, this Clint Barton had thrown him off balance before he'd even arrived, and then he'd come spilling off the bus steps in a tangle of blonde hair and jail-scrubs and practically knocked him over.  
He's pretty and he knows it, a sick kind of slick-sexuality – seductive, provocative – brushed over a gangly, malnourished frame, and it makes Phil shiver to think that he'd seen him as attractive down there in the dirt on his knees. 

He's perfectly capable of pushing that aside of course, but it still makes him feel like the worst sort of person. 

He'd felt even worse when he'd caught sight of the guy in his mother's kitchen with his shirt off. 

Muscle stretched too far, he's closer to starved than lean. His back is a mess of scars, enough to kill a man let alone a child, but he'd thrown back his shoulders and worn them with a pride and a challenge that had made Phil want to scuttle back up to his room and hide. His mother still hasn't seen the state of his chest, and he's careful to never roll his sleeves up past the cap of his prosthetic. 

They know, of course they all _know,_ but he takes some small comfort in that they haven't seen it. 

Yet there was Clint Barton, practically daring anyone to imply that it was wrong for him to have gained those scars as a small boy, that it wasn't something that should have happened. 

A part of Phil wishes he could live so bravely, so unapologetically. 

The other part of him is just unsettled. 

Sighing, he finishes off the last of his coffee and rinses the mug at the sink before filling it back up again. There's a stash of military-style meal bars in one of the cabinets, nutritionally complete and entirely superfluous here, but they're a bit like a security blanket for him now, a bit of his brand of normal here in this place where food is regular and plentiful. He grabs three, stuffs them into the pocket of his coat where it hangs over the back of his chair. 

They should be back in time for breakfast, if all things go well. 

More than anything it's a peace offering. 

Maybe a bribe, considering the way Barton had scarfed down his food the night before. 

God, that had been the hardest meal Phil had ever had to sit through. 

He doesn't want to know why a starving man would sit down to table full of hot food and not make a move toward it. 

He hasn't quite managed to get that thought out of his mind when the guy comes creeping down the stairs, the loose floorboard in the hallway creaking under his feet. Phil hears him curse under his breath, come around the end of the hallway and freeze when he realizes he isn't alone, the warm yellow light of the kitchen spilling out into the entryway. 

"Early riser," he says calmly, not too quiet, not too sharp as he moves to stand in the arched, open doorway, leaning against the frame. "That's good. Still, you've got about two hours on the rest of them – work doesn't start till seven." 

Barton doesn't reply, just stands there in his borrowed jeans and shirt, shifting anxiously on his feet and eyeing the front door like he's judging whether he can beat Phil too it. It's a wary look, an animal look, and Phil doesn't like it at all. 

"There's coffee," he says abruptly, turning his back on the young man and walking deeper into the kitchen. "Cream and sugar or black?" 

What feels like a full minute passes before he gets an answer. 

"Black." 

It's careful, hesitant, and when he finally turns and takes his seat at the far end of the table Barton is still clear across the room, still hovering as close to the door as he can be and watching Phil like any moment he expects him to pounce. He'd hoped by putting himself behind the table he would make him feel a little more at ease but it's obviously a tactic that failed, so he just gestures silently at the mug he'd refilled and left at a second seat, waiting. 

He approaches slowly and hesitantly, drinks standing up and watches Phil over the rim of the mug the entire time. He clutches it to his chest like he thinks it will be taken away, like it might be the last thing that goes in his belly for a while. Phil watches him right back, sees nervousness and anger, but there's guilt there too and that's good. The guilty ones always stay. 

"Come with me," he says, getting to his feet just as Barton finishes the last of his coffee, slinging on his jacket and grabbing two apples from the bowl on the table. He tosses one in the man's direction and isn't surprised when he catches it easily and neatly, hyper-aware of his surroundings. "I want to show you something." 

Barton eyes him, turning the fruit round and around in his hand, lingering back as Phil heads toward the front door. He pushes it open, steps out into the chill dawn before he turns and meets his gaze. 

"You're not a runner Barton," he states simply, walking backward across the porch. "You never were." 

To his annoyed, confused relief, the kid follows.

**AVAVA**

Clint curses himself as he follows Phil Coulson outside, shivering in his thin, too-tight shirt. The sky is only just barely going grey outside, the sun not yet over the edge of the mountains off to the east. He'd thought he had plenty of time. Ranch-life, _early risers,_ sure, but he'd thought he'd had time.

He'd planned it all from the unbearable comfort of the bed the Coulson family had afforded him. He'd take the clothes the son had loaned him – couldn't be seen wandering around in jailhouse scrubs. He'd take one of the trucks parked across from the main house, the oldest, the one that was worth the least – couldn't make it down the mountain and away on foot. He didn't _want_ to steal from them, didn't _want_ to take, but what else could he do, how else could he... 

All he'd known was the instinctive need for flight, the heavy sensation in the pit of his belly, the tingles on the back of his neck that told him to get out, to get away. 

Those instincts had served him well in the past, and he'd found himself sneaking downstairs in the dark to follow them even as his head was telling him to stop, to think it through. 

The soft light spilling out of the kitchen, the rich scent of coffee had been like a knife in his stomach. 

He can't tell if this guy, this Phil Coulson is just an idiot, just naïve, or if he'd been humoring Clint, giving him an out. 

He could've run. Could've just walked out the door. He doesn't think the other man would have tried to stop him. Even if he did Clint thinks he could've walked away from it – sure the guy's a soldier, but Clint's been fighting for his life since he was four. Instead he'd offered Clint coffee, and asked him to follow, said something that... 

Said something that he shouldn't have said, that he can't possibly _know,_ something that echoes inside Clint's chest like some kind of warm, soft praise and it makes him sick. 

So he follows, follows like some kind of lost puppy out into the cold, dark morning, crunching down the apple he'd been tossed before the guy can change his mind and take it back. Doesn't matter that he doesn't look the type, that as a soldier he probably knows hunger. Clint doesn't think he'll ever get over his issues with food. It's half gone when Coulson leads him inside the enormous barn that dominates half the little plateau the house is built on, the little clearing up in the mountains this family has claimed, and Clint nearly forgets about it as his senses are assaulted by the place and very nearly sends him spinning back in time. 

The scent of clean sawdust, straw and horses and sweet feed is thick in his nose. 

There's a stillness in the air that he can _feel_ against his skin. 

He can hear the soft shift and nicker of horses waking up, see ears pricking all along the hall as they move toward the doors of their stalls to investigate, and it's like he's fifteen all over again, sleeping in the boxcars that kept the old dancing ponies. 

He doesn't realize he's drifting down the hallway until suddenly he's at the far end, pressed up against the bars of the second to last stall on the left, looking in at a gorgeous sorrel mare, dark, dark red with four neat white socks and a little white snip marking on her nose. She's beautiful, sleek and muscled with big dark eyes, and he finds himself leaning against the door, fingers curling around the bars. 

"Hey there pretty girl," he murmurs quietly as the mare steps daintily closer, stretching out her neck to snuffle in his direction. "Yeah, you are a pretty thing. Look at you." 

The horse steps up to the wall, her velvet nose tickling along his knuckles, and he realizes she can smell the apple on his fingers. As protective of the fruit as he'd been a minute ago, he doesn't think twice about offering her the core, and she crunches it up immediately, watching him from the corner of her eye and shuffling closer to lick at his fingertips with a wide, rough tongue. 

Clint laughs, sticks his hand through the bars to stroke down her nose, rub behind her... 

"Don't touch Lola." 

He jerks his arm back through the bars so fast he bangs his elbow, hisses under his breath. He'd completely forgotten about Coulson being in the barn with him, and now the guy's behind him and he's angry and he... 

Clint whips around and slams his back against the wall of the stall, his hands fisting at his sides, ready to fight, and then he immediately feels like an idiot because Coulson's got his hands up in surrender, a look on his face like... 

God, he hates this. 

"Shit, sorry," the man curses. "Sorry. Just... 

Huffing, he takes a deliberate step back, waggles his open fingers. There's a coat and two halters on the floor at his feet, where they've fallen. 

"It's just she doesn't really like other people," he says with a frown, confusion, and Clint feels something bubble in the pit of his belly. "I didn't want you to get..." 

Clint watches the man's eyes widen in shock and then feels something tickle the back of his neck, feels the mare poking her nose through the bars and lip at his hair where he's pressed back against the stall. 

"Bit." 

Clint licks his lips, swallows and steps away even though the mare nickers at him, rubs the back of his neck as he ducks his head. 

"Sorry," he mumbles. "I shouldn't have..." 

And he shouldn't have. 

She's not his horse, he doesn't know anything about her, he shouldn't have... 

"No it... it's ok. She likes you." 

The man sounds... perplexed, and Clint's pretty sure that's a bad thing, but all the guy does is huff and shrug his shoulders like it's fine, like he'll puzzle it out later. 

"Here," he says, bending to scoop up the jacket he'd dropped and handing it out to Clint. "Barn coat. We'll kit you out today or tomorrow but this should work for now. It's cold out there." 

Clint scowls but snatches the coat from him – it is cold, even though the air inside the barn is much warmer from the hot-blooded horses. He jerks it on, knows Coulson's eyes are on him, can't do anything but raise his chin defiantly. The guy watches him do it, _pretty blue eyes,_ nods like he agrees with it and Clint loves and hates him just a little bit for that. 

"You know horses at all?" he asks, and Clint has to stop himself from scoffing then. He doesn't know, doesn't understand and he's asking honestly, out of necessity more than curiosity. 

"Yeah," he says, his voice coming out rough and rusty. "Yeah, I... I've ridden before." 

More than that. 

So much more. 

He'd been solely responsible for Bluebell and Buttercup after he'd started using the ponies in his trick shows, saving the aged horses from being slaughtered for tiger feed. He'd fed them, groomed them, slept between them at night, and ridden them bareback around the ring trusting them to hit their marks despite their limping gait. 

He'd loved them, and he regretted having left them behind. 

"Come with me." 

Clint blinks himself out of his memories, hesitantly takes the bit and halter Coulson holds out to him. He leads the way back up the hall, halfway to the door where he stops, opens another stall and steps inside. He gestures Clint in beside him, the space too small, too occupied, but he wedges himself in between the guy and the door, the pretty gray pony inside. 

"This is Kate," Coulson says quietly, and Clint flicks his gaze over him before stepping forward, offering the small horse the chance to investigate him, to snuffle at his sleeve. "She's the only horse we have that's not being ridden right now." 

Clint nods, watches the horse carefully as he brings his hand up to pet her cheek, scritch her forehead beneath her thick, black mane. She's a little too small for him, a little too short for comfort, and it's clear that Coulson knows this from the way he's frowning, measuring them both up as he stands next to the horse's head, but it's nothing she won't be able to handle. 

Holding up the bit, he guides it into the horse's mouth before slipping the bridle over her head, settling the strap behind her ears. She takes it easily, a good sign, and Coulson nods before stepping back out into the hallway. Clint follows, tugging Kate along behind him and she follows happily enough, standing patiently beside him when Coulson pauses to haul two saddles out from the tack room at one end of the barn. 

He's hit again with a little bolt of lust seeing that – Clint may have ridden bareback in the circus but he knows how heavy western leather saddles are. Coulson lifts one in each hand like it's nothing, shoulders and biceps shrouded by his thick coat, but his mind can supply the image ok? 

Stupid, so stupid to react that way, especially when all it does is confuse him, but he can't seem to help himself. 

It's not fair. 

Luckily Coulson hands him a saddle, giving him an excuse to focus his eyes and his hands on something else for a moment while he goes to fetch his own horse. Clint hefts it up onto Kate's back, pleased when she merely shifts her weight on her back feet, clearly accustomed to the thing. She's eyeing him out the corner of her head though, looks a bit sly, and he chuckles when he catches her puffing up her belly. Bluebell had done the same, though it had done her little good since it had been hadn't been a saddle he'd dressed her in. 

Lifting his knee, he presses it gently into her belly until she blows all the air back out again, allowing him to tighten the cinch a further two notches. 

"Brat," he accuses with a smirk, stroking his hand down her flank; glossy, dappled grey like frost. 

"You _do_ know horses." 

He doesn't jump, he _doesn't,_ not when Coulson's voice runs unexpectedly down his back like ice water, not half a second later when a horse – Lola, _duh_ – bumps him roughly in the ribs, a playful yet powerful nudge. He doesn't jump, just turned to face him, chin tipped up in defiance because he doesn't know what else to do. 

Coulson cocks his head, stares at him like he can read him, then shrugs and swings himself up smoothly into the saddle, and yeah, ok _that_ gets him hot and he _totally_ gets why. 

Cause he's a dumpster fire of a hot mess human being, that's why. 

Coulson looks down at him from his place astride Lola's back, then jerks his chin at Kate's. 

"Let's go," he says quietly, and then he's squeezing the horse's side with his knees and urging her out of the barn into the brisk mountain dawn.


	5. Chapter 5

It's a cool morning, clear. 

Spring is well on its way. 

As Phil settles his hips into the easy, rolling rhythm of Lola's gait he takes a long, deep breath, drags the clean mountain air into his lungs. There's a giddiness riding with him this morning, despite the strained silence of the man riding behind him, and he can't help the eagerness, the childish excitement welling up beneath his ribs that comes from being here, from being home. 

He's yet to really take Lola out to explore the upper trails, to really push himself out to the edges of the Circle C's property. He hadn't planned on doing it this morning, certainly hadn't planned on doing it with company in tow, but it seemed as good a time as any and it... it felt right, as strange as that was. So when they've passed the first rough-hewn fence railing into the lower pasture, he looks back over his shoulder, sends a wary Clint Barton a wicked smirk of invitation, and squeezes his heels to spur Lola into a canter. 

From there all he has to do is give the horse her head, and she's off and blazing across the field like there's competition on her heels, the wind a heavy rush in his ears. 

This is what he loves, you see. 

The wildness, the freedom of this life. The power of the animal beneath him and the openness of the country ahead, the fire in his blood. 

It's beautiful. 

Lola pulls up of her own accord when they've reached the other side, panting and blowing and dancing around on her feet, as excited as he is to be out and moving again. Phil laughs, full and honest, then remembers that he's not alone and edges Lola around to see how far behind he's left his charge. 

To his surprise, Clint has cajoled Kate into a rolling gallop – the shorter, heavier pony has no real hope of keeping pace with his long-legged mare, but she's doing her best to act like she doesn't know it. 

They aren't that far behind. 

Clint watches him carefully as he slows the little grey pony down, easily keeping his seat and settling her back to a walk as Phil turns them toward the upper trail head. Phil catches him scratching the base of Kate's neck near the saddle horn, reins loose in his grip, murmuring praise, and he smiles. 

"Sorry," he apologizes insincerely, edging Lola slightly ahead, both because the trail gets narrow in parts and because he thinks Barton will be more comfortable if Phil isn't looking at him. "I haven't really pushed her since I got back, and she needed a good run." 

"Back." 

It's not a question, not phrased like one anyway. Something dark bubbles up in the pit of Phil's belly – he doesn't like telling this story, but he finds himself opening his mouth and spilling it before he can think about why. 

"Army. Home from rehab, I don't know, three weeks now." 

He swallows hard, waits for the inevitable questions, but they never come. It takes all he has to keep himself from turning around, from inviting them, but he can feel Barton's sharp gaze burning into the back of his neck before leaving off. Clearing his throat, he urges Lola on and up, higher into the mountain. There's something about the silent companionship that's painfully good, even as tight and strained as it is, reminding him of long, stressful patrols in the desert with his team behind him. 

That's... unsettling to say the least, because he doesn't know this guy and he isn't sure he wants to, his attraction to the kid all twisted up with the warning bells that had clanged in his head after reading his file. Then he'd gone and turned out to be a genuine victim – not just a whiny brat like half the guys his parents took on – but never once had he used it to his advantage, never once had he asked for special treatment. He'd shrugged off any pity his mother would have offered for the vicious scars crossing the planes of his back, sat silently at the dinner table without bitterness as he'd watched them eat, and followed Phil without question when he easily could have left. 

That shows something, shows... _promise._

He should give him a chance at the very least, which is why they're up here. 

It's a long trek, the air cooler and sharper the higher up they go, the mountain ridge circling the back half of the property. The terrain is harsh and rugged and he loves it because it's home, because it's demanding and unforgiving and unapologetic. It takes and it takes and you have to work at it to get anything back, and if you're not careful the land itself can swallow you alive. 

Lola pushes forward, muscles straining as she carries him up onto the ridge, carefully picking her way along the rough, rocky trail. Mud and stones litter the pathway, fallen branches, the winter having done a number on the hand-cleared path – they'll have to clean it up again before summer gets here. He keeps a surreptitious eye on Barton as best he can, but the man guides his mount effortlessly through the nastiest bits, trusting her to carry him through the rest. 

It shows intelligence, and inherent horsemanship, both things Phil can appreciate. Half the men that come to the Circle C seem to think working with a horse means being stronger and more stubborn than they are, but if you knew a damned thing about horses as a species you knew how misguided that kind of thinking was. 

Still, he hadn't lied. His seat is untraditional – he looks slightly uncomfortable in the saddle – but he rides well, handles the horse even better. If they can find him a more suitable mount... 

For a while his head is full of other things, distracted by the business, the cold, bloodless money of this world, so necessary but so far removed from the living, breathing heart of it. They break off the trail up onto the crest of the ridge and follow it around, and then suddenly they're looking down at the spread of the Circle C just as the sun breaks over the mountains. 

Phil's heart thumps in his chest, his breath catches, and he... 

Jesus he loves this place. 

For a while, he'd thought he'd never come back. Thought he didn't want to come back, and even just a few short weeks ago, being back had felt... like failure somehow. 

But being here, now, up on the mountain, lord of it all... 

It's home. 

There's psychology there but he doesn't care to examine it too closely – his next therapy session's not till next week after all. He does more than enough self-reflection thanks very much, but that doesn't mean he's above using it to get things done. 

"Some places," he starts slowly, surprised because that's not the way his speech usually starts, "They change you if you let them." 

Clint's eyes flick in his direction before he turns back to the vista spread out below them, settles himself deeper into the saddle with a soft creak of leather. Kate shifts her weight, easing closer so that she can stretch out her neck and nibble at Lola's mane, and suddenly Clint's leg is pressed against Phil's from knee to ankle. He flinches, tenses up but doesn't pull away, so Phil steadfastly ignores it, instead jerking his chin toward the view. 

"This was always one of those places for me. Not just home, not just the ranch, but this spot, right here." 

"Change isn't always good." 

The words come out small but steady, smooth and utterly sure. They hit Phil in the chest like shrapnel, sharp and stinging, little bits of glass and metal digging their way beneath his skin, and in that moment he knows for certain that one day he's going to ask Barton for his story, going to listen even though he knows it will make his blood boil. 

"No. It's not." 

Barton looks at him, sharp and sudden, his eyes painfully intense, but Phil doesn't feel the need or the desire to say anything more than that. He's dealt with his own difficult changes, is still dealing, and he's willing to admit to that but he's _not_ willing to air all the gory details. Half the ranch hands are still wondering exactly what the hell happened to bring him limping back home – Barton hasn't earned all his trust yet. 

He doesn't offer him anything more, can't really, just turns Lola and heads back down, Barton keeping pace behind. 

He's done what he can, _given_ what he can of himself without breaking – what's left is on Barton. 

He guides him down out of the mountains, leaving him to think in silence, pleased when he eases Kate to a slow walk in order to cool her down on the way back to the barn. They line their horses up side-by-side in the aisle and strip them of their tack, give them a rub down and put them back in their stalls with hay and feed, just a little water. Barton doesn't shirk any of the work, clearly knows what he should be doing and takes the initiative to do it, doing it _right_ on top of that. 

It's a pleasant change of pace. 

Barton follows him up the porch steps at a jog, shoulders hunched inside his borrowed jacket and head ducked, hands shoved into his pockets. It doesn't mean anything, isn't a commitment or a promise, but something in Phil likes to think that he's being trusted with a chance. He'll take him inside and introduce him to the men, feed him a hearty breakfast, and then it will be time to hand him over to his mother for the day. 

He doesn't really want to think about why that rubs him wrong.

**AVAVA**

Clint keeps his head down through breakfast, eats the food on his plate and doesn't engage. Probably makes him look like a dick, but he learns more by watching and listening than by asking questions. He can already tell that Coulson trusts Sitwell and Triplett more than the others, that Ward, Garrett, and Rumlow are aligned and dangerous. There's something simmering underneath their words, something dark that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he doesn't like the way Coulson is coldly quiet when introducing them. 

Not that he likes _Coulson._

Sure, he's ok, but not special, doesn't make _Clint_ feel... 

It's stupid, he's got no damned business thinking about the guy any kind of way. 

But that trip up the mountain... 

That had hit something in him. 

As he quickly and quietly stuffs scrambled eggs and ham into his mouth, he tries to keep the scowl off his face, tries not to let himself _feel_ that shit. He shouldn't, it's stupid, _stupid,_ but he can already feel it creeping in on him, especially when the men all get up and head outside, leaving him behind in the kitchen with Ellie Coulson and a tiny Puerto Rican man named Javier. He helps gather dishes without asking and wipes down the long, wooden table with the damp rag that Javie tosses him, and then Ellie is collecting up her purse and bullying him back into his borrowed coat and out the door again. 

"Come on sweetheart, the sooner we get into town, the sooner we can get back," she says with an easy smile, and Clint finds himself nodding his head and following after her like a puppy brought to heel. 

She's an impressive woman, Ellie Coulson, he'll give her that, and Clint's met impressive women. She's all confidence and control, subtle beauty rivalled by quiet strength. She wears worn jeans and heavy boots just like the men she'd confidently shooed from her kitchen, a canvas work coat. He can picture her out of doors, on a horse on the mountain or working in the garden he'd spied behind the main house, and she doesn't shy away from him the way he would expect her too. Easy to do when she's safe in her own home with her husband and her son there to protect her, easy to be all sympathy and concern, but here, walking alone with him up the dirt path toward the trucks, climbing onto the bench seat only feet away from him, all locked in, she seems just as unconcerned. 

He doesn't know if that says more about him or her. 

She beeps the horn as they pull out of the driveway, and two men across the flat stretch of mud between the barns stand up tall and lift their hands in acknowledgement. Clint's throat gets tight for some stupid reason, and he almost immediately starts to panic as they pull out onto the road, because the ride in on the bus had taken hours and he has no idea how much time he'll need to fill before they hit town. 

He doesn't need to worry though – Ellie fills the silence with the low hum of country music playing softly on the radio and bright chatter about all her plans for the coming spring; planting, roping, and calving seasons. Slowly he manages to relax, at least enough that he's not all cramped up against the door, leaning forward into his seatbelt. She doesn't react but Clint doesn't think for a moment that she doesn't notice, and he's not sure how he feels about that either. 

"...Just a few things at first I think," he hears her say, tuning back in just in time to realize that he's expected to respond. "We'll be working you hard and feeding you up – a young man like you, I expect you'll bulk up quite a bit in no time. You're far too skinny sweetheart." 

"I have money," he blurts out suddenly, embarrassed by his words and the sentiment behind them almost immediately. "I mean I... I don't _have_ it. I... lost my ID, and it's in a bank in Arkansas, and I don't..." 

"What on earth were you doing all the way down there?" Ellie asks with a gentle smile, no doubt meant to settle his nerves. 

Clint's kind of pissed that it works. 

"I um... kinda used to be in a circus," he mumbles. "We... moved around a lot." 

"I'll bet you've got some stories." 

Clint licks his lips, looks out the window. 

"Yeah." 

"Well, I'm sure we can figure something out," she says, wisely ignoring the way Clint's shoulders have gone high and tight with tension. "Phillip's good with things like that – we'll find a way to get you your things back. Until then the Circle C can kit you out, no trouble. You'll need boots and a hat, a better coat. A good pair of gloves. Hmm...." 

Flicking on her blinker she pulls onto an empty freeway and hits the gas. 

"We'll take you to Walmart first," she decides with a firm nod of her head. "You can get some jeans and shirts and things, and then I'll take you down to FitzSimmons' place for the rest. Their leatherwork will last you a lifetime, and they're always willing to open a credit account for the ranch hands." 

Clint nods, can't find words to answer, just stares out the window and thinks about lost things, change, whether you like it or not.


	6. Chapter 6

A ‘few things’ turn out to be a lot more than Clint was expecting it to be. Ellie Coulson has him pick out two pairs of jeans, a pair of sweats, and a pair of gym shorts, then piles the cart high with plastic packages of socks and underwear and t-shirts. He gets a couple of long-sleeved Henleys too, and a warm hoodie that costs too much but that she insists on, because the nights up in the mountains get colder than you’d expect. A pair of tennis shoes round out the lot, and Clint twitches through watching her pay for the whole thing. 

The drive from Walmart to the other side of town only takes about five minutes it’s so small, even if it took them a full hour to get there from the ranch. Ellie guides the truck into the crowded parking lot of a tiny little shop built like a log cabin and shoos him inside, and the strong scent of leather and polish is familiar and comforting even though it shouldn’t be. The place is busy and full up with customers, but before the bell above the door has even finished chiming a trim, pale brunette comes bounding over and throws her arms around Ellie’s neck. 

“Mrs. Coulson!” she cheers in a thick, British accent. “It’s so good to see you!” 

Ellie chuckles, hugs her sweetly and lets her go. 

“Hello Jemma, how are you dear?” 

“Oh just fine, busy as always. Would you like some tea?” 

“Perhaps another time; I have Clint Barton here; we need to get him kitted for work.” 

“Pleasure to meet you Clint Barton,” she says, shaking Clint’s hand before he can even think of shying away from her. “I’m Jemma Simmons, my husband and I own The Tannery. Let’s fix you up then, shall we?” 

Clint opens his mouth to respond but the two women are already bustling him deeper into the shop, and he quickly comes to realize he doesn’t have a choice in the matter anyway. 

At least Jemma knows what she’s doing – he’ll give her that. She fits him with a heavy Carhartt work coat that leaves plenty of room in the shoulders, then drops to her knees to measure his inseam without preamble. A pair of honest-to-god assless chaps come out of that awkward experience, then a pair of tough leather gloves that will protect his hands from the cold as well as anything else. He gets a Stetson cowboy hat in pale grey that Ellie says brings out the color of his eyes and a leather belt with plenty of room to grow, and then he’s dragged over to a literal wall of boots to have his feet measured and stuffed into about a dozen different pairs before he manages to get his mouth open and say he prefers combat boots to anything else. Jemma taps a finger to her lips for a minute, then squeaks and jumps up from her seat on the fitting bench to disappear around a shelf full of leather conditioners. 

She’s back two seconds later lugging a box on her hip, and the boots inside are perfect; heavy, round-toed shit-kickers that lace halfway up his shins. They’re still styled similarly to cowboy boots – which, Clint doesn’t even understand how that’s possible – but they’re a lot closer to what he normally wears and he feels his hammering heart ease off just a little once they’re on his feet. 

“If you have the time, Fitz will tag them for you,” Jemma says, ringing up their purchases at the counter, Clint going a little green and sickly as the price continues to climb. 

Ellie just laughs and acquiesces demurely, signing a slip of paper and handing over ten percent of the total price before quickly explaining the system to Clint. 

“Ten percent every month,” she says, as a young man with curly blonde hair approaches from the other side of the counter. “We take five from each of your paychecks and send it directly to FitzSimmons until it’s paid off.” 

“You’re already boarding me; I can pay you back,” Clint insists, but the man behind the counter grins, scooping up the massive pile of stuff sitting like a brick of damn gold between them. 

“We know where to find you,” he says, his accent just as thick as Jemma’s. “The Coulsons are good for it.” 

“Leo,” Ellie titters, swatting his shoulder. 

The guy sends her a cheeky wink, kisses Jemma on the forehead – must be the husband then – and disappears into the back. 

“Tea now?” Jemma says hopefully, and Clint finds himself herded into the back workroom to be fed scones and jam while the women chatter at each other and Leo Fitz works diligently over a sewing machine. 

By the time they’re headed out the door with Clint’s new things, each with a carefully formed C.B. stitched or tooled inside, his chest has gone tight again and his senses have all gone sharp, paranoia tickling at the back of his neck. People smile and wave and call out goodbyes and invitations to dinner, and this just isn’t the kind of person he is, isn’t the kind of thing he knows how to handle. They store their purchases and Ellie seems to sense that he needs a minute, because when he collapses against the side of the pickup to hunch over and wheeze, she leaves him to it, climbing in but rolling down the far window so that it’s open between them. 

It takes him a while. Probably five minutes, even if it feels like forever. When he finally manages to catch his breath and his knees stop wobbling underneath him he climbs back into the truck, where Ellie is listening to country music way down low and reapplying her lipstick in the drop-down mirror, giving him some much-appreciated privacy, 

Yeah, work boots _and_ lipstick. 

She’s… kinda awesome. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says when she turns to him with a look of gentle worry. 

“Oh,” she murmurs, reaching over to cup his chin in her hand. “Don’t worry sweetheart. We’ll teach you.” 

Clint bites his lip as she starts the truck and puts it back in gear, but doesn’t speak. 

Somehow he thinks she knows what he really meant.

**AVAVA**

Lunch has come and gone and they’re back at work by the time his mother’s truck comes rumbling back up the drive. Phil swings his hammer one more time, pounds a steel fence post into place before straightening up and stretching out his back. He’s exhausted already – his stamina’s still decent from the Rangers even after all that time in a hospital, but ranching is a different kind of work and it still takes it out of him. His father’s dog barks, scrambling out from under the porch to greet approaching vehicle, and he feels a nervous eagerness of his own to know that they’re both back.

Not that he doesn’t trust his Clint Barton with his mother - kid looks like he’d kill for a mom – just… 

Well, it doesn’t really matter anyway; Ellie Coulson can take care of herself. She wears a little six-shooter in an ankle holster, and she’s got a left hook as mean as most of the ranch hands. Not many people last out here, male or female, without knowing how to handle themselves, without having a little gravel in their gut. 

He watches the two figures get out of the truck, Barton’s lanky, too-thin frame discernable from his mother’s curves, and follows as they unload the truck, hauling their loot up the porch steps. From here it looks like Barton has tried to do the chivalrous thing and carry most of it himself, but hasn’t quite managed. Phil huffs an almost-laugh as he fumbles something and just manages to catch it, surprised at himself and only brought back to attention by Tripp knocking shoulders with him as he lifts another piece of panel fence. 

It’s stupid, the way his emotions are all over the place. He takes them out on the steel as they jerk and finagle the pieces into place, locking them together tight enough that four or five tons of sheer horse power won’t break them apart. Two hours later they’ve got the corrals up and standing strong, small pens and the large, two-acre paddock all connected by a narrow, complicated tunnel system. In a week they’ll bring the three cattle herds in one at a time and run a second pregnancy check, allowing them to separate the expectant cattle from the rest and get them penned up to calve safely down on the ranch. 

It’s early March, in three or four weeks they should have new babies on the ground. 

As Phil dismisses the rest of the ranch hands for the afternoon and heads up to the house to shower, he thanks god that it had been a mild winter. They haven’t seen snow in a month or two, even if there’s still up bit up on the top of the range, and it’s already starting to warm up. No doubt he’ll regret it when they’re suffering through an endless, blazing hot summer, but for now he’s glad of it. His arm aches in the cold – aches now, what with all the work – and he’s actually excited for calving. A month or so after the last calf drops, they’ll do the castrations and the cattle branding, and a month or so after that they’ll head out to round up the horses. 

It’s a lot of work. Between all of that there’s the regular care of the ranch and all its occupants, the exercising of the horses and the repairs to the barn roof and planting of the garden and the feed crops. Life on a ranch is exhausting in and of itself, not for the faint of heart, but for the first time in a long time he’s looking forward to the future. 

Heading upstairs to his room, he smiles when he hears his mother singing in the kitchen. He catches a whiff of yeast and her famous sourdough starter, and his stomach rumbles at the thought of fresh-baked bread. As much as he misses the Army he has to give civilian life a lot of perks – one of them being his mother’s cooking. Another, which he might love even more some days, is the fantastic water pressure and unlimited supply of hot water the main house can boast. 

Stripping off, he detaches his prosthetic and climbs in, scrubbing away the sweat and dust and rust of the day. He’d learned a while ago how to shower efficiently with only the one hand, but washing his hair is still tricky, and he’s forced to resort to children’s shampoo that won’t utterly blind him if it runs into his eyes. Clean and rinsed, he takes a minute to luxuriate in the heat and the steam, not only to loosen up his shoulder but to simply enjoy the pleasure. That was certainly something you didn’t have the time to do in the Army. 

Opening his eyes, Phil glances around suspiciously, then immediately feels like an idiot because he’s locked in his own bathroom in his own room in his parents’ house, and damn it, he’s a grown adult. 

He can jerk off if he wants to; he’s not going to get caught. 

It’s funny – he thinks that, but he still feels guilty even as he lathers up a bar of soap and takes himself in his hand. It’s been so long since he’s felt good, since he’s allowed himself to feel good, that he’s probably got an official complex about it now. His therapist tells him that he expects too much of his body, that he should actually schedule time to do this, to explore himself and let things happen as they happen, but he keeps it clinical and brief, more about stress relief than anything. He does manage to lose himself in it a little there at the end, his eyes fluttering closed, but the guilt comes flooding back when he orgasms to the thought of flashing grey-green eyes and an attitude like a cocky young timber wolf.

**AVAVA**

Clint’s in the kitchen with Ellie and Javier kneading bread dough when the front door opens and Phillip Coulson comes stomping in, knocking the dirt off his boots and standing them on the mat. His hands still in the lump of sticky-soft flour as the guy passes by the door, striding down the hall before disappearing up the stairs. There’s something intriguing about him but Clint doesn’t know what, and that makes him anxious as hell because he’s seen curiosity kill more cats than he can count.

Top that off with the fact that Clint’s ridiculously attracted to him and you’ve got a recipe for disaster right there. 

Easier to figure out the one Ellie’s got him focusing on, so he dusts a little more flour onto the countertop, scrapes the dough off his hands, forms it back into a kinda-of ball and puts his shoulders back into it. 

It’s calming really, the repetitive motion of it and the thick, sweet smell of yeast and sugar. Ellie Coulson sings softly under her breath – gospel and country and a little classic rock – which makes Clint smile and Javie join in in a warbling baritone, and it’s nice for a while. 

Safe. 

Dangerous, to let his guard down like that, but it’s tiresome to be so alert all the time. Coming back from town had helped, coming back to the ranch, as there’s a sense of protected isolation to the place that Clint loves, but he still feels like there’s a ball of energy pent up inside his chest that he doesn’t know how to get rid of, and it’s nice to get it out by pummeling the dough. 

“When can we ride the horses?” he asks as Ellie turns little balls of dough into neat loaves, tucking them into greased tins as though they were as delicate as kittens. 

“Oh, whenever you like dear,” she replies, handing the pans off to Javie who stands at the ready next to a warming oven. “As long as you’re not working, and you don’t overwork the horse. But I expect you’d know better – Phillip says you’re familiar with them.” 

“Yeah, I… yes ma’am.” 

“That’s always a plus. They need the exercise obviously, but we want them ready to go when we need them. Tomorrow for instance, I believe they’re making a dry run up to pasture, getting ready to bring the cattle down in a week or two. That will be good for you, give you an idea of where you’re at, let you get the lay of the land. If you want to do some pleasure riding on your off-day Phillip can show you the best trails.” 

Clint doesn’t answer, just chews his lip. 

He doesn’t know if he wants to spend any more time with her son than absolutely necessary. 

He doesn’t know if he _should._

“There,” Ellie says with satisfaction, closing the door on the bread pans and leaving them to rise. “You two run along; dinner will be ready in a few hours. Clint, why don’t you go return Phillip’s clothes – you can ask about the ride and make sure he hasn’t fallen asleep with his boots on; he knows better than to wear them into my house.” 

So much for that. 

“Yes ma’am,” Clint nods, ignoring Javier when he snickers at the use of the honorific, and scrams before he can be roped in to helping clean up the mess. 

Seriously, it was fun, but he’s pretty sure there’s flour on the ceiling in that kitchen. 

Ellie Coulson probably won’t enlist his help in the baking again if she’s got any kind of sense in her head. 

Climbing the stairs with a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach that grows heavier with every step, Clint takes a deep breath and steels himself for what he’s about to do. Stupid, stupid, so what if he’s attractive, that’s no good reason to fall apart like a teenager. Ignoring that fact that he technically is still a teenager of course – he hasn’t been a kid in a long time. 

Collecting the clothes that he’d borrowed and that had already been laundered with all of his new things, Clint crosses the hall to the only door that’s still closed and knocks before he can chicken out – he shouldn’t have to brace himself for this. 

Except yeah, he definitely should have done that. 

Phil opens the door looking all sorts of delicious, and it really isn’t fair. He’s damp and pink from a shower, standing there in his shirtsleeves, and Clint has to stop himself from licking his lips. The man’s eyes widen when he sees Clint standing and he blushes hard, the tips of his ears going bright red, but when he speaks it’s calm and controlled. 

“Hello Clint,” he says, finishing the last of the buttons on his shirt – the bottom buttons, oddly enough. “Can I help you with something?” 

“Your mom said to make sure you weren’t asleep with your boots on,” he blurts, because his brain kind of goes offline as Phil turns away to walk deeper into the room, gym shorts showing off a perfect ass. 

Phil snorts, a kind-of-laugh that makes Clint shift on his feet. 

“I mean, she said I should check, when I brought your clothes back.” 

“Thanks. Just toss them on the dresser.” 

Clint takes an awkward step into the room, puts the stack of clothes down and tries not to see every little detail of his surroundings - the swimming trophy on the bookshelf, the Captain America poster on the wall, the goddamned Army Ranger’s medal on a little pedestal on the bedside table. 

“Take the advice,” Phil says, and Clint flinches, thinking he’s been caught, but the guy is fiddling with his sleeves and staring at the wall, a faraway look on his face. 

“Sure,” Clint says hesitantly, and Phil blinks. 

“Oh. Just that my mother has a memory like an elephant. Track mud through the sheets one time and she’ll never let you live it down.” 

“Oh. Right. She said dinner was in a couple hours so I guess I’ll probably…” 

Awkward, he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, and Phil smirks a soft kind of smile. 

“Nap when you can,” he suggests, leaning over to dig into the bedside drawer and coming up with a post-it and pen. “We get up early and we work late. It’s about to get busy around the place. Here.” 

Tossing the pen aside, he hands Clint the sticky note, three lines of alphanumeric nonsense he can’t make heads or tails of. 

“The wifi code,” he explains, “And the username and password for the Netflix account. The TV in your room is hooked up so you can watch it, and there should be a laptop in the closet you can use.” 

“I… thanks,” Clint mumbles, unsure of what to do with the offer, what to think of it. 

“No problem.” 

It’s a dismissal, obvious and clear, so Clint nods and leaves him alone, not ten paces down the hallway when Phil shuts the door after him. It’s an uncomfortable sensation and he feels like he’s done something wrong, but that’s hardly unfamiliar so he brushes it off and shuts himself up in his own room, flopping onto the bed and turning the post-it note between his fingers. 

He’s not big into TV shows, never really had access to much before. He certainly wasn’t caught up on what was popular, all the sitcoms and crap that people fought over at the jail. He was more of an active kinda guy, lifting weights, working the circus, not that he had much muscle to show for it. He’s been starving too long, running too long for that. Hopefully with good food and good work he can bulk back up, actually be able to draw his own bow again. 

His bow. 

God, but he wishes he had his bow with him. 

Might give him something to do, something to focus his spiraling thoughts. 

He’d lost it though, left it behind at the circus when he’d gone with Barney and ended up getting caught and hauled in, charged and jailed. 

Not much he can do about that. 

Except… 

Except there’s a laptop he can use in the closet, and unmonitored access to email. 

Maybe there’s something he can do after all.


End file.
